


Smalltown Boy

by concretejungle



Category: Political RPF - UK 20th-21st c., Political RPF - US 21st c.
Genre: 90s AU, Drug Use, Everyone Is Gay, M/M, Teenage Drama, nine inch nails addicted teens, oh god this started as a joke, uh oh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-25
Updated: 2019-07-30
Packaged: 2020-07-19 15:17:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19976227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/concretejungle/pseuds/concretejungle
Summary: The worlds longest slow burn between two idiots finally comes to its sweet end.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> oh god this started as joke i am so sorry please do not sue me for defamation of character

It was another long and drawn out Tuesday when something very peculiar happened. Pete was awaiting his best friend Beto to arrive to their usual spot in the lunchroom; the table in the far back corner by the window, when he was spooked by Beto’s unusual appearance. His tall and lanky friend was sporting a misfits tee with incredibly dark eyeliner and eye shadow that had begun to run down his face. He also had black, ripped jeans.  
“You, uh, got a lot of balls wearing that, Beto.” Pete smiled weakly.  
“What? You think i’m gonna be fuckin’ made fun of?”  
“Nah...nah, uh, it’s just what happened in April.”  
“What happened in April?”  
“Ah…don’t worry about it then.” He took a bite out of his bruised apple as he shrugged. It was drawing near the end of the millenium anyway, and no one would remember what had happened as Christmas was around the corner.  
“Fuck, alright then.” Beto picked at the low grade lunch on the plastic tray.  
“Anyways… ah, what made you decide to pick out a new look?”  
“My parents are out of town so I can finally fucking express myself for once.” Beto dramatically flipped his blonde ponytail to the other side of his head. “And on that topic, I’m planning a party and I'm gonna need your help.”  
“Oh. Okay. What are they out of town for?”  
“Fuck if I know. I don’t remember and I don’t care. All I know is that they’re gone ‘till Saturday night.”  
“Understandable enough. When, uh, is the party?”  
“Either tomorrow or the next day.”  
“So you want me to, um, come home with you tonight?”  
“Of fuckin’ course, dude. Oh, could you bring some snacks too?”  
“Uh, yeah, I guess. But I have to talk to my mom about it. You know how she is.” “Yeah. Oh, I got my record player to finally fucking work again, so bring over some shit if you got it.”  
“Sounds okay.” Pete shrugged. He tried thinking of his records he had collected over the years, from garage sales and stealing some during house parties, but almost all of them wouldn’t match the musical taste of his best friend. He saw the cover for the italian band Easy Going’s self titled album prominently in his head, knowing that he could never tell anyone he had owned the album just from the cover alone. His mind wandered off into all sorts of topics, and soon enough he had awoken from his comatose state when he had realised the lunch bell had rang and Beto had left. 

At about 4 pm, Pete had arrived home to an empty household. He knew his mom wouldn’t get home until about 6:30, and even then she would sleep almost immediately upon arrival. Of course, it was to keep them from being homeless, and Pete commended her for it, but the lack of her presence had been a slow stab in the heart. He had felt jealousy from the fact Beto’s parents were always there for him; He complained that they were breathing down his neck all the time, but to Pete, that was something to be happy about. Of course, Beto didn’t understand this, as Pete complained about the same thing to Beto before, but this was just another plot hole in Pete’s thin veil he’s made to masquerade his life to Beto. The lie that his mother was overbearing had started all the way back in elementary school. It was a simple conversation that had stirred up when Beto had talked about how his mother was treating him, and in an absent minded reply, Pete had said his mother treated him the same. It had spiraled from there. It was almost akin to covering up the smell of death with cheap dollar store perfume, being that it was quite obvious to any person that Pete had barely any connection with either parent. However, Beto, being the oblivious cotton-brained dork that he was, never had taken notice. Of course none of this mattered now; Beto had not come over once in the span of almost 10 years, but it still clogged the back of Pete’s conscious whenever the subject came up.  
Shaking the thoughts from his head, Pete emptied the contents of his backpack unto his bed. He sat down in front of his collection of vinyls. Pete knew that almost all of it would scream faggot if he showed his collection to anyone, with such contenders as the Bee Gees, the aforementioned Easy Going, and the Village People. His fingers flipped through his catalog of music; it soon came down to two albums: Oingo Boingo's Nothing To Fear album, and the other being Pretty Hate Machine by Nine Inch Nails. Oingo Boingo was always a good band, and he was fortunate enough to own his favorite album, but Pretty Hate Machine was surprisingly his all time favorite. It was the first album he had gotten and had both good and bad memories attached to it. How many times he had sat in the dark listening to this album? He knew that the number must've been somewhere in the hundreds. Plus, it was something that was more Beto's style anyway, so he carefully placed it inside his backpack. He made his way over to the kitchen and grabbed 2 bags of chips and a six pack of soda that was lodged in the back of the fridge.


	2. Chapter 2

He made his trek to Beto's house; it was freezing by the time he had reached his destination and naturally regretted not grabbing anything more than his usual gray hoodie. Knocking on the door, he heard a muffled fumbling behind it.  
"Heylo!" Beto swung open the door for his smaller friend to come in.  
"Hey." Pete answered. He quickly brushed past under the arch Beto's arm made to retreat into the warmth of the house; he felt the intense heat just from the slight touch of Beto's shirt and had immediately shuddered in response.  
"Whoa buddy, you're shivering! Why didn't you grab a fuckin' jacket or something?" Beto shut the door quietly behind him, following his friend inside the house.  
"Oh, I, uh, I didn't think it was gonna be that cold."  
"Eh. Fair enough."  
"I brought the snacks." Pete sat down on the couch and zipped open his backpack. He carefully removed the contents, which of course were cold as well.  
"Ah shit, thanks buddy." Beto sat down on the couch opposite to Pete. "Can you help me set up?"  
"Uh, yeah, of course." You're not even going to give me a blanket, huh?  
"Alright, fuckin' cool. I already bought some decorations earlier." Beto grabbed a flimsy plastic bag from underneath the coffee table and dumped it unto the top. It was miscellaneous Christmas decorations that were clearly from the dollar store.  
"Hmn. Okay."  
“Let’s get to it!” Beto nearly cut himself on the sharp edge of the tape dispenser as he ripped a piece off, and immediately scooped up as much decorations he could carry on one hand. Pete saw this unfold before him and didn’t move a muscle; watching as Beto ran off into the kitchen. Six foot tall puppy.  
About halfway into the decorating, Beto was individually taping little Santa heads together to form a sort of bead doorway that he was hellbent on making; Pete had set off to decorate the upstairs during this, but had slipped into Beto’s bedroom. A banner flag of their school's mascot hung above his unmade twin sized bed. Beto’s signature 1998 orange apple computer sat in the corner of the room on an oak desk with a clunky printer to complement it. The ugly wallpaper that reeked of the 70s looked more faded than ever, and the fact that Beto’s dad refused to let him hang posters to cover it didn’t help the cause. Pete remembered him complaining about it one day while they were playing Tecmo Bowl. But he was not here to gawk at the ugly decoration. He scuffed over to the small closet, tenderly grabbed the iron handle on the wooden door, and peered inside the shallow area; his eyes scanned over everything until it met something of interest. Kneeling down, he carefully picked up an incredibly crude heart shaped box. He saw his and Beto’s initials knifed into the side, with an even cruder smiley face on top. He remembered that he had added those per request of Beto, and chuckled a bit upon the memory of the principal giving him a half-assed scolding for bringing a switchblade into shop class. Pete shook the fuzzy memory from his brain and peered at the keyhole for the box. He tried to open it. Locked. His eyes hungirly scanned the closet floor for a key, but to no avail. Pete shook the box to try and hear what Beto had put inside; he was greeted with shuffling and clunking. The box was quickly put back in its place when Pete heard his friends voice calling to him from downstairs. He left the room to answer, but he still heard the shuffling of papers inside his head as if the contents of the box were mocking him. 

The clock read 6:03 when they had finished shittily draping the decorations around the house, along with hiding the O'Rourke families most prized valuables inside the attic.  
"Woah, we're finally fucking done." Beto plopped back down on the couch.  
"Yeah." Pete sat back down in the same spot he occupied about an hour earlier. "Oh, hey, I brought an album with me."  
"Oh fucking sweet!" Beto sat immediately back up.  
"I think you'll like it."  
"It's not The Sex Pistols, is it?"  
"Oh no, it's not."  
"Thank fuck, what is it then?"  
"Nine Inch Nails."  
"Nine Inch Nails?" Beto furrowed his brow. "Sounds familiar."  
"It's, um, Trent Reznor."  
"Who?"  
"Uh, it's whatever. I'm gonna put it on and you better like it." Pete chuckled.  
"Shit, alright." Beto watched as his friend tenderly took the record out from its shell and placed it unto the player that was sitting crudely on the bookshelf.  
"Here goes." Pete mumbled under his breath; he placed the needle and sat back down as it started.  
The beginning of Head Like A Hole crept up through the player's speakers, Pete peaking over at Beto to watch his facial expressions. His eyes lit up when Trent’s voice blared throughout the house; he was completely enamored by just the first minute. They both sat back and listened intently to the rest of the track. The second it faded out, Beto spoke.  
"I fucking love it!"  
"Good." Pete gave him a thin smile. Thank God.  
This sequence of events repeated up until Sanctified. Right before the beginning of the track that Pete sat in darkness crying to almost a hundred times, Beto asked something that both crushed him and made him want to jump for joy.  
"Can I keep it?"  
"Uh, I dunno..." Pete winced a bit.  
"Please?" Beto looked at Pete with puppy dog eyes. This had slain him immediately.  
"Sure. Just uh, be careful with it."  
"Thank you!" Beto got up. Something I Can Never Have was just beginning when he placed his slender hands on the player's needle and lifted it back into its cradle; he then slipped the record back into its protective shell and placed it down on the coffee table.  
"I better, uh, get going." Pete grabbed his backpack.  
"Thank you for the help!" Beto smiled down at his smaller friend. Pete took a few seconds to process the genuine rare smile he got from Beto, which, of course, made him flushed, and forced him to leave quickly as possible to avoid his friend seeing his face.  
"You're welcome. I'll see you tomorrow." The tone of his words fell out wrong. He rushed out of the door; only about a minute into the fast paced walk did he feel the bitter cold bite his skin. He spent the rest of the walk home switching between thinking about how he fucked up the last few seconds with Beto, and debating whether or not his embarrassment or the cold weather would kill him first.


	3. Chapter 3

The sunrise of the next morning had refused to emerge. Thick, dark clouds had crowded deep into the sky. Not only did the clouds have the audacity to block the sun; it had snowed from dusk till dawn. This series of events had caused the only six schools in the district to shut their doors for the day; they had called everyone with a landline registered in the school system and had hoped that the students without one would assume they would be closed because of the inclement weather. Out of all of the families fortunate enough to own a landline, this had included both Beto and Pete. Pete had figured they would be closed anyway when he watched the snowfall from the night previous, and only had his theory confirmed when the ringing of the phone woke him an hour earlier than his alarm clock. Beto, on the other hand, had received the same phone call. But he didn’t answer the phone, on the account of the fact he was deathly afraid of hearing a killer on the other end of the line. Pete knew of this irrational fear, partly because he was with him when Beto developed it in the middle of watching Scream a few years back. This specific thought had only floated up like a dead fish in Pete's mind about half an hour after the initial call from the school. He awoke from his daydream state when he remembered, and was out the door within four minutes. 

Once again, his suspicions were correct when he saw the familiar shape of his friend standing underneath the bus stop’s shelter.  
“Hey, Beto!” Pete trudged through the dense snow up to the stop.  
“Fucking shit, what the fuck?” Beto whipped around.  
“No school today.”  
“What?”  
“No school today.” Pete took off the second layer of coat he had on and handed it over to Beto. He hungirly swiped it from his hands.  
“Thanks. That fucking rules. I’ve been wanting a day off since forever.” Beto snuggly fit inside the warm coat. “Hey, can you walk me home? I don't think my fuckin' legs will cooperate all the way there."  
Pete had wanted him to ask this for a long time. However, in this moment, it had not lived up to its anticipation on the account of it being freezing out. He agreed anyway.  
“Yeah, sure Beto.” 

It was a long walk back to Beto’s house; They had fought through the freshly fallen snow. Beto tried to run as fast as he could when he saw his front door, resulting in him falling face first into the freezing cold; He then had to be rescued by Pete via aggressively breathing into his wool gloves and rubbing the snow off of him. Beto whined about the harsh texture the gloves had up until they reached the driveway.  
“Thanks for walking me home, dude.” They made their way inside as Beto slipped his snow-covered coat and boots off, shuffling into the living room searching for warmth.  
“It’s no problem.” He shed his as well and followed his friend deeper into the house. Pete sat down on the couch, watching his friend turn on the fake fireplace. Only a moment had passed before Beto started to freak out.  
“Wait. Fuck. Wait. Fucking fuckerson. Fuck ass. Fuck. Shit!”  
“What is it?” Pete winced a little.  
“I fucking forgot about the party. You think school will be out the rest of the week?” Beto looked around at the party decorations they had put up the night before; half of them strewn about on the ground already.  
“I mean, uh, probably. And If it ain’t out, I’m not going to even attempt to walk in that more than I have to.”  
“Shit. I guess it’ll just be you and me, then.” He got up and retreated into the kitchen.  
“Are you grabbing the snacks I brought?”  
“I...ah...no. I’m gettin’ some other shit.” There was an audible rumble of plastic and aluminum; Beto came back into the living room with a dingy walmart bag full of Pabst beer.  
“Woah.”  
“Yeah dude. This is the fucking tits.” He pulled a can out of the bag and handed it to his friend on the other couch. Pete carefully took the can from him and used his teeth to pry it open.  
"You still do that?" Beto asked; he placed the bag of beer on the cushion next to him.  
"Do what?"  
"Open shit with your mouth." He took a beer from the bag and cracked it open with his boney fingers.  
"Anything you hand me, is, like, dangerous territory."  
"Oh come on! That was one time dude."  
Pete squinted at him and sipped his beer.  
"You still aren't over that?"  
"I mean, I am over it, but it pays to be cautious y'know?" Pete answered. He was not over it.  
“Yeah yeah, whatever. You wanna watch some shit?” Beto motioned to the television on the bookshelf.  
“Where did the record player go?”  
“Moved it to my room. Wanted to finish listening to the album you gave me.” He shoved his hand inside the couch cushion and retrieved the tv remote.  
“Ah. Okay.” Pete melted a bit deeper into his seat. He directed his attention to the television that was now playing a rerun of a Beavis and Butthead episode. “Anyone ever tell you that you look like Butthead?” Pete snorted a bit as he watched his friend reel back in horror.  
“Anyone ever tell you that you look like the fucking Pillsbury Doughboy?” He quipped back at him; flicking the tab opener from his beer at Pete.  
“Hey now,” Pete laughed. “I do not look like the Pillsbury Doughboy.”  
“And I don’t look like fucking butthead.”  
“Eeeeh…”  
“Oh shut the hell up!” Beto laughed along with him. “Pillsbury Doughboy lookin’ ass.”  
“I look more like, uhm, Butch from the Powerpuff Girls if anything.”  
“Who?”  
“The emo one, but a dude. Y’know.”  
“Oh. Yeah. Cool. You watch that shit?”  
“It’s not just for girls, dude.” Pete plucked the tab off of his can and threw it at Beto; returning the favor. “Anyways, where the heck did you get this beer?”  
"My dad keeps a six pack hidden in the garage."  
"Isn't he gonna notice its gone?"  
"Yeah probably, but he can't say jack shit about it because that means outing himself to my ma, who banned him from drinkin' at home."  
“Eh, I guess.” Pete put his beer down on the coaster. “You feelin’ frisky?”  
“What?” Beto looked over at his smaller friend.  
“Hem, eh, I mean, do you wanna try some new stuff?”  
“The fuck do you mean by that?”  
“I mean,” Pete sat up and leaned over; looking directly at Beto. “Do you wanna get stuff other than beer.”  
“How are we gonna do that?”  
“I know a guy.” Pete began to regret his decision when he noticed Beto nervously fiddling with the fringes of the couch.  
“Yeah, that sounds like fun, but you know my dad can’t know.”  
“We don’t have to do that, if you don’t want to.” Fuck. Pete knew that this was the point of no return. Beto refused to seem like a pussy when it came to this type of shit, and it's gotten his ass in trouble with his dad more than once, on the account of him being a fucking cop. He felt his organs writhing on the inside of his body. Beto wouldn’t give up something like this now.  
“Naw, lemme hit some shit. What is it? Grass?” Beto took a cautious sip from his beer.  
“It can be weed, yeah.” Pete picked up the Pabst from the table.  
“Well, what else would it be?”  
“Eh. Don’t worry about it.” Pete reached back into the depths of his mind to retrieve his drug dealer’s phone number. He heard Beto’s muffled talking and the scrambled laughing from the TV, but blocked it out with concentration; crushing the now empty beer can in his hand when he came back from his thought coma.  
“Hey, dude, are you fucking hearing me?” Beto wiggled an unopened beer in front of Pete.  
“Oh, yeah, I’m sorry. I was trying to remember his number.” He took the beer from him and placed the crushed can on the coffee table. “But I got it now.”  
“You wanna call ‘em?” He pointed over to the homeline. Pete felt like spiders were crawling underneath his skin.  
“Yeah.” He stood up and slowly made his way over. He shouldn’t have said anything, or mentioned the fact he remembered the number. A thousand little needles pricked the inners of his brain and made him feel like vomiting. He picked up the phone and punched in the numbers. The ringing echoed on the inside of his skull. A nasally voice answered.  
“Hello?”  
“Hey. Tony. It’s Pete.” He waited a moment; a shuffle came from the other side.  
“Oh. Hey faggot.” Tony cackled from the other line. “Funny you called, I just got your shits.”  
“Yeah. Cool. Uhm, do you wanna come with it? I’m at my friends house.” Pete cradled the phone in his neck.  
“And how am I supposed to know where the fuck that is?”  
“Hold on. I’ll give you the address.” Pete moved the phone and waved to Beto. “What’s the address?”  
Beto blanked out. “Eh, just tell him that it’s the only house with an American flag out on Pritz Avenue.” Pete put the phone back in his neck.  
“It’s the only house with an American flag on Pritz.”  
“Oh, I’m just a fucking GPS now, huh?”  
“...eeeh.” Pete sluggishly squeaked out.  
“I’m fucking with you shithead. I’ll be over in 10.” Tony sharply hung up the phone.


	4. Chapter 4

About 20 minutes later, Pete heard Tony’s signature rust bucket of a car drive up. He quickly slid on his coat and went to meet him outside. It was colder than ever.  
“Hey Tony.” Pete waved to his friend in the rusty 1971 Cadillac DeVille. Tony’s car slowly came to a halt.  
“Hey fag.” He promptly shut the car door behind him and attempted to walk past Pete and into the house, but was stopped by the smaller man’s hand.   
“I need to talk to you before you go in there.”  
“What you want Shorty?”  
“Please, don’t be mean to him or pressure him into other shit.” Pete gripped the front of Tony’s jacket.   
“Jackass can’t fend for himself?”   
“I mean, eh, he can, but please just don’t.”  
“Can’t a guy take a joke?”  
“I don’t want him to think anything bad, y’know.”  
“Oh, is this the guy you’re a fag for?” Tony pointed over to the house. Pete tightened the grip on his jacket.   
“If you say anything…” Pete pulled Tony closer.   
“Oh, that’ll be extra.” Tony grinned. Pete sighed deeply.   
“Fine. Just don’t say anything to him.” He grabbed his wallet from his jacket pocket and lent him $40.  
“Tsk tsk. I’m gonna need another 20 for giving him some pot too, endangering myself to someone I don’t trust, not spilling the beans on you being a fag, etcetera.” Tony ripped the $40 out of his hand and Pete hesitantly handed him another 20$.   
“Thanks.” Pete avoided giving his drug dealer a death stare and led him inside the house. 

Pete’s crush was situated on the couch, rolled up inside his blanket like a Beto Burrito.  
“Wake up limp noodle.” Tony shouted. Beto immediately jolted up and nearly fell off of the couch.   
“What the fuck, dude?”   
“I got y'all's drugs.” Tony ejected his duffle bag onto the coffee table; he narrowly avoiding knocking over the beer cans.   
“Be careful, please.” Pete faintly said, but no one acknowledged him.   
“You know how to roll a joint?” Tony shoved Beto’s blanket-bound feet out of the way and sat down next to him on the couch. Beto said nothing as Tony unzipped his drug carrier and plucked a ziplock bag out from its depths. “Have you even smoked before?” He placed a bag of weed down.   
“Uh, yeah, of fuckin’ course, dude.” Beto unwrapped himself and scooched closer to Tony. Pete fled into the kitchen to avoid the situation. He felt like shit; considering the fact that he was just cleaned out of all of his cash and his drug dealer was acting extra shitty today. Pete lost himself in the contents of the tasteless wood grain cabinets and orange wallpaper hidden behind the plethora of cooking supplies and dining sets. Traces of the snacks he bought were nowhere to be found. A plan to get rid of Tony bubbled up in his mind; he considered tracing the curves of the doors to pass time and think more on it, but didn’t on the account of the fact that he heard his name mentioned from the other room. Pete shuffled close to the exit and listened.  
“You know, your buddy is a jackass.” Tony’s muffled voice spoke through the thin wood door.   
“What? No he isn’t.”  
“He fuckin’ jipped me on this today dude, he’s lucky i'm even givin’ you any of my good shit.”   
“That doesn’t seem like something that he’d do.”   
“He only gave me 20$ for all this shit, so, if you wanna help pitch in, that’d be great.” Pete heard Tony’s words stab him in the heart; He slowly walked back into the living room.  
“What’re, uh, y’all talking about.” Pete said loudly. Before Beto could say anything, Tony spoke over the both of them.  
“Where were you? We were just rollin’ these fuckin’ joints.” He motioned to him with one. “Come. Sit.” Pete obliged and sat down on the couch opposite of them. Beto riffled through his jean pockets and came up with $5.  
“Here.” Beto held the crisp bill to Tony, who stared at it for a solid 3 seconds before reacting.   
“Oh, what the fuck are you givin’ me this for?”   
“You said that P-”  
“I never said anythin’ about that, boy.” Tony said. Pete watched them both; his drug dealer gave Beto the stink eye.   
“But you did a few seconds ago ab-”  
“What? Are you some sort of fucking retard? Did you not just hear me?” Tony pushed Beto’s hand down and focused on the joint in hand. “Help me find a lighter, will you?”   
“Hey. Don’t call him that.” Pete spoke up.   
“I’ll call him whatever I damn please, I’m the one that brought the good shit.” Tony replied. His grip on his joint tightened as he pointed at him with it.   
“This is my fuckin’ house, dude.” Beto pushed him lightly.  
“Don’t you fucking touch me queer.” Tony elbowed Beto in the ribs.  
“Tony, can you stop being yourself for one single day?” Pete shot up from his seat and walked closer to the two.  
“Bro, get the fuck out of my house.” Beto raised his voice. Tony put his weed down and leaned in closer to Beto.  
“Make me.” Tony ripped the unlit joint from his hand and tossed it inside his bag. “Queers don’t get my good shit.”   
“That’s enough.” Pete gritted his teeth. He stood next to the couch, his hands twitching to grab onto something.   
“What’d you say, fag?” Tony spun around. His dirty hand slid into his pocket.  
“You heard me.” Pete went to grab him by his hair, but whipped his hand back to avoid Tony’s switchblade.   
“Try me, short stack.” He stood up. Beto froze as Tony begun to back Pete into the nearest wall. “I oughta teach your stupid ass a lesson. You know not to fuck with me.” He poked the blade into Pete’s cheek. It accidentally sliced it when Beto smacked tony upside the head. Both screamed.   
“Get the fuck out of my house.” Beto punched Tony in his side; Pete quickly jolted out of his pain coma and wrestled the switchblade out of his drug dealers hand, cutting himself in the process.   
“Stop- Stop it!” Tony screeched as he flailed around attempting to hit something.   
“Shut up, you squealing fucking cunt.” Pete calmly grabbed Tony by his hair and stuck the switchblade firmly in his shoulder. He twisted it inside and felt the edge rub against the other side of his skin; dark red spurted out as he withdrew the knife and stained his gray shirt.   
“Wh...What?” Beto once again froze in his tracks as he listened to Tony’s screams of anguish. They both did nothing as he fell to the ground and crawled towards the entrance of the house. Pete and Beto stood in silence as they watched him skitter around for his jacket and escape into the freezing snow outside. Pete focused on the blood trail on the floor as the silence continued for what felt like hours. The sting from the cuts started to burn into his nerves as each second passed. He finally broke the silence.  
“I’m sorry.” Pete said softly; he walked out of the room.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Final chapter.

Beto had stood completely alone with his thoughts. The blood on the floor began to dry; the dark red splotches insulting the wood grain. The harsh and cold wind rubbed up against the house, the howling of the air seeping its teeth into the wooden siding. Inside of the home was completely dormant; the two boys were both motionless and quiet as they stood by themselves in different rooms. Beto had no idea where his injured friend had gone. He felt a murky current of emotions swirl up into his chest, but attempted to ignore it as he finally moved and gathered cleaning supplies to rid the floor of blood. He had no snarky comeback or clever joke for this. Beto’s brain felt clouded. Everything felt clouded.   
After about an hour of redundant scrubbing and rinsing the bloodstains, Beto gave up on making it spotless and discarded the cleaning supplies in the kitchen sink. He stood there for a few minutes; watching the blood from the brush swirl into the drain. Beto worked up the courage to go and find Pete.   
He knocked lightly on the bathroom door. There was no light emitting from inside the room, however, he heard a small rustling and cursing from behind the oak.   
“Hello?” Beto knocked once again. No audible reply, but Pete unlocked the door.   
“Hey.” Pete was sitting back on the ground; smeared blood decorated his face and hands.   
“Oh, Jesus fucking Christ.” Beto closed the door behind him.   
“I’m sorry, man. I’m sorry.”   
“Shush.” He withdrew the first-aid kit his mother had always kept underneath the bathroom sink; kneeling, Beto got to work.   
“You don’t have to do that. I’ll be fine, Beto.” Pete softly chuckled.  
“You’re covered in blood, dude.” Beto poured Alcohol on a cotton pad. “Brace yourself. This is gonna sting.” Pete winced. Beto wiped the knife wounds on his cheek and hands.   
“Shit…” Pete quietly whimpered.   
“Potty mouth.” Beto smiled down at him. He finished cleaning the wounds; cleaning the blood off and bandaging the cuts.   
“Hey, I have a right to swear this time.”   
“I guess you do.”  
“I sure fucking do. Hey, uh, thanks for not freaking out on me and cleaning me up.” Pete put out a weak grin. In the moment, the swirling inside Beto finally calmed. He put the first-aid kit to the side.   
“Yeah.” Beto finally relaxed and rested down on the floor next to him. “Can I say something?”  
“Of course.”  
“I love you.”   
“What?” Pete sat up straight immediately.  
“Uh… You know.” Beto gripped the side of his leg hard in attempts to avoid blushing. It failed.   
“No, I don’t know.”  
“You...uh…” Beto stuttered. He was greeted by a bandaged hand grabbing his face and a mouth kissing his.   
They stayed that way together in the bathroom for awhile. No words were spoken. 

“I’d love to stay here with you in this moment forever, but you really need to get out of that bloody hoodie.” Beto withdrew from Pete’s embrace and chuckled.   
“Oh. You’re probably right.”   
“I am right. Come on, you can borrow my clothes while I clean yours.”   
“Do I gotta stay clothed?” Pete laughed.   
“We’re not there yet frisky mcstabby pants.” Beto’s spine audibly cracked as he got up from the floor. “Take my hand.”   
“Is that my new name now?” Pete tenderly gripped his boyfriend’s hand and stood beside him.   
“Only until you get out of that old ass hoodie.”   
“Hey, I’ve only had this for 2 years!”   
“To replace the same exact one you had before.” They both left the bathroom.  
“It’s my signature look, man.” Pete followed Beto upstairs.   
“That's reasonable, I guess.” Beto went into his bedroom and Pete followed suit. “You can pick something out of the closet.” Beto sat down on his bed. Pete opened the closet he had snuck into the night before; the heart shaped box was sitting in the same spot he left it in.  
“Hey, uh, Beto, I got a question.” Pete looked back at Beto.   
“What is it?”  
“What’s in the box?”   
“What box?” Beto got up and marched over to the closet.  
“That one.” He pointed down at it.   
“Oh, that one.” Beto grabbed the box and brought it up to his chest. “This, uh…”  
“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want.”   
“It’s not that, I just don’t know how to phrase it.” Beto lent the box to Pete; he promptly reached up on the inside of the closet door frame and retrieved the key. “Here.”   
“Oh. You want me to, uh, open it?” Pete felt like exploding. His questions would finally be answered, and it was because Beto had finally fallen in love with him.   
“Yeah, go ahead.” Beto smiled. “I guess to explain it, it’s uh, letters I’ve wrote to no one in particular. I wanted to keep my handwriting good since I’ve been using the computer a lot.”  
“Letters to no one?” Pete unlocked the box; it was a sweet sensation.   
“I mean, yeah, but no, but…” Beto fiddled with his words as Pete lifted a letter from the box and unfolded it with one hand. “Now that I think about it, they were all indirectly written to you.”  
“Let's read them together, then.” Pete grinned. They walked over to the bed and scattered them unto the blanket. The sky lit up outside; the sun began to rise on the cold night.


End file.
